Fast Food

I recently took a one-day road trip with a good friend. We set out early and were promptly pulled over by a highway patrolman. Luckily, we were pulled over in a construction zone so the fine got bumped up. Somebody’s got to pay for this stimulus stuff. As soon as we pulled out of the driveway, my compadre started in about a particular fast food joint he felt we would need to stop at on the way there. We decided to wait until we got out into BFE to stop. After all, this particular restaurant is ubiquitous. After being on the road for a few hours, we find one in a decent area near a truck stop. I use the term “decent” in the loosest of senses. Anyways, we stroll in, and the joint is packed – with employees. You know the type: disheveled, nearly toothless, looking like they’ve been on a lifelong bender. And that’s it. No one else is in the place. Well, there was some lady in there, but she was driving a Smart Fortwo with Canadian plates so with that double whammy, she gets left out of the fast food chain census. I’m getting hungry. Before we order up, I decide to wash up. To my surprise, there’s a gentleman in front of the bathroom (What, these things get cleaned?), and he is gathering 10 to 15 mini cardboard boxes up. He keeps trying to pick them up, and he keeps dropping them. I think to myself, “Why?” Why the boxes? Why right here? He makes several guttural sounds and grunts something. I can only nod. I assume he went back into the kitchen and immediately placed his hands on some food. He was not cleaning. I’m getting hungrier still. By the way, have you ever been to a fast food joint where the employees are skating around in the kitchen? I’ve seen a few of these, and apparently, the floor is so slippery from grease, you have to either slide around or risk bodily injury. I wonder if there are non-slip fast food joint shoes out there to buy that neutralize the slippery floor, endorsed by Michael Jordan or somebody. I’m really hungry now. I’m so hungry after I come out I order a couple things off the dollar/value menu, and of course, my friend spends like $15 on their garbage. He gets like 3 biscuits, some burritos, and a gallon and a half of orange juice in a giant cup with a tiny bottom designed to fit in your classic ‘89 Geo Metro cupholder and next to your giant muffin top (and I’m not talking about food). I’m worried for him and for me. We eat. I am disgusted, and I love it. My friend rations his out over what seems like the next hour. Apparently, he is savoring every bite, putting salsa and spicy mustard on everything and doing the whole “hmmm” and licking the fingers bit. I feel sick for him. Our meal inevitably leads to later discussions about how awful we feel. But at this point none of the depth charges have exploded. I am thankful. The small size of my depth charges will hopefully lead to little or no collateral damage. My compadre, on the other hand, has a much more difficult road ahead. He is either okay or making Jamie Lee Curtis proud without having eaten even one spoonful of yogurt. I hope it is the latter rather than the form. Or should it be the other way around?